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And yet Charlie’s letter had made it clear that Henry was the source of the danger. And that his concern was only for his sons, not his daughter...

Joyce felt as if she was going around in circles, getting nowhere. Part of her wanted to confront her father and demand to know what he had done that might cause Charlie to write such a letter. But she knew it was pointless. Henry would tell her not to torment herself, that there was absolutely nothing to worry about — all the usual platitudes. The one thing he would never do was treat her as an adult and an equal and divulge whatever he might know on the subject. If she wanted answers, she would have to come up with a more devious approach.

The silence was shattered by the sound of the front door opening and voices in the hall. Joyce glanced up at the clock on the walclass="underline" ten past four. Molly and Fred were home from school, delivered to the door by Henry’s driver. Unlike other mothers, Joyce didn’t have to worry about doing the school run; her father saw to it she was cosseted in that as in everything.

She sprang to her feet and hid Charlie’s letter and the two envelopes under the bread bin, then made ready to greet her two younger children with the smiling hug they would expect.

As usual, Fred’s first words as he bounded into the kitchen and flung himself at her were, ‘What’s for tea, Mum?’

Tall for his age with floppy dirty-blond hair like his dad’s, Fred sniffed the air theatrically.

‘I can’t smell anything,’ he said.

Joyce was a good cook and enjoyed cooking. On school days she always served the children’s evening meal at five, but she’d been so preoccupied by the letter she had completely forgotten about food.

‘I decided we’d treat ourselves and order in a pizza,’ she said, thinking on her feet.

Fred’s face split into a wide gap-toothed grin that was the image of his father’s — except that his father hadn’t had gaps in his teeth. Or not by the time Joyce met him, anyway.

‘Wow! On a school night. Cool.’ Then his expression turned thoughtful. ‘It’s not my birthday, and I haven’t done anything good, I don’t think. Well, not particularly good. Why the special treat? Has Molly done something good?’

His big sister nudged him. She took after her mother and was small, dark and pale skinned.

‘What?’ Fred demanded.

‘Think before you speak, you little monster,’ said Molly, nudging him again.

‘What?’ said Fred, frowning.

‘You know Mum gets sad sometimes. She’s missing Dad. She doesn’t always want to cook like she used to.’

Fred stared at Joyce with big eyes full of remorse. ‘Sorry, Mum.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Joyce. ‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart. Your mum’s been lazy today, that’s all.’

She wondered what she had done to be blessed with children so perceptive and sensitive to others’ needs. Unlike his elder brother, who seemed to have inherited the Tanner gene for impenetrable inscrutability, Fred’s every emotion was reflected in his face. There had been a time when Mark was open and unguarded too, and in light of Charlie’s letter Joyce couldn’t help wondering what manner of indoctrination into the Tanner way of life he’d been subjected to at the hands of his grandfather, particularly since Charlie’s death. A frisson of panic ran through her again: perhaps Charlie had had a point. Perhaps something did need to be done to prevent her younger children falling under the spell of their grandfather.

Joyce realized Fred and Molly were studying her intently. They’d barely been in the house five minutes and already they were picking up on her anxiety. How would she get through the rest of the evening without alerting them to the fact that something was amiss?

It struck her then just how desperately she needed to confide in someone, to vent her fears, and with luck find some answers — and she knew just the person to turn to. A pizza delivery would let her off parental duties for at least an hour, long enough to nip down the road to her mother and show her the letter, see whether she had any idea what could have prompted it. Henry’s driver wouldn’t have made it back to the office yet, so there was no way her father would be home before six. That left the coast clear for her to speak to Felicity alone.

Galvanized by the prospect that some answers might be within reach, Joyce reached out, wrapped an arm around each child and pulled them close to her.

‘Thank you, my darlings,’ she said. ‘I’m not really sad. Well, no more than usual, anyway. It’s just that I need to see your grandmother about something, and she was out when I called by earlier. I thought if we ordered pizza I could pop over now for an hour. You can order, if you like, Molly. Four seasons for me. Choose anything you want for yourselves — but easy on the garlic bread.’

‘What time will you be back?’ asked Molly.

‘I shouldn’t be long. Have them deliver at five thirty, if you can wait that long. And look after the monster for me, darling.’

‘I’m not a monster,’ said Fred.

‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ said Joyce.

It took two minutes for Joyce to walk to her parents’ house. Felicity was in the kitchen putting the finishing touches to a steak-and-kidney pie — Henry’s favourite. She seemed surprised to see her daughter.

‘Shouldn’t you be getting the kids’ tea?’ she enquired.

‘We’re ordering in a pizza,’ said Joyce. ‘Molly’s doing it.’

Felicity raised her eyebrows. ‘On a school day?’

‘Yes, on a school day,’ replied Joyce tetchily and without offering any further explanation.

Was she really such a creature of habit that her entire family responded this way to the smallest change in the daily routine? She suspected that the answer was yes. Ever since she’d married Charlie and moved back to Tarrant Park, she’d clung to routine as a means of getting through each day, never deviating from her schedule during term time.

It was as if she’d turned into a sort of Stepford wife, a far cry from the girl she’d once been. Remembering the old Joyce, that determination to be independent, to follow her dreams, she felt the spirit that had been subdued for so long flare up inside her. It was that spirit that had carried her to her mother, with the intention of coming straight to the subject of the letter and quizzing her about what Henry could have done to warrant the accusation.

But the moment she was in Felicity’s presence, her resolve evaporated. What could she possibly hope to glean from her mother? There was no question where her mother’s loyalty lay: firmly with Henry. Felicity’s first instinct would always be to consult her husband, and then defer to him in whatever course of action he saw fit to decide upon. Anything Joyce told her mother would immediately be disclosed in full to her father.

Since she had already eliminated the possibility of discussing the letter with Henry, Joyce was now at a loss how to proceed.

Perching on a kitchen stool, she tried for a breezy, casual tone: ‘Hey, don’t I get a cup of tea?’

‘If you make it yourself,’ responded her mother, lightening her words with a warm smile. ‘You can see I’m busy, can’t you?’

Joyce stood up, filled the kettle from the sink and switched it on. Perhaps she could instigate a more subtle interrogation than she had originally planned. But the thought of deceiving her mother made her feel uncomfortable, and whenever Joyce felt uncomfortable she was inclined to blush. Already her cheeks were burning. Thankfully she had her back to her mother, and to keep it that way she took her time rummaging in the cupboard for the jar of teabags and selecting a mug.